


A Promising Recruit

by Vevici



Series: On the Warden-Commander Vie Mahariel [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, F/F, First Meetings, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-06 20:35:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15893649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vevici/pseuds/Vevici
Summary: Alistair, junior member of the Grey Wardens, meets the newest recruit. Imagine his surprise when he learned that she was Dalish. Will she hate him on principle? Will they annoy each other? Or maybe the blight will, indeed, bring them together.





	A Promising Recruit

A promising recruit. That’s what Duncan had called her in the note that arrived in Ostagar a day before the Warden-Commander himself. He had said little else, aside from the fact that she was sick with the Blight. It would have helped Alistair immensely if his mentor had mentioned the recruit was Dalish. Imagine his chagrin as he mouthed off at her, making bad jokes about the mix-matched army and the looming war.

                To be honest, he had not noticed her at first, trying as it was to convince the enchanter to talk to the revered mother. A small figure at the corner of his eye; white blouse, dark leggings. Only when the mage had passed her by that Alistair suspected she was there for him. That, or she enjoyed watching a squabble. Everyone loved a good cat fight.

                It was the twin blades strapped on the left side of her hip that caught his attention first—octagonal pommels, wooden grips, no cross-guards, thin slightly curved blades.  Elvhen made. Alistair lifted his gaze to her face just as he stopped two feet in front of her. Large eyes, red markings on her face. Clearly Dalish. The fact that one of the reclusive Dalish elves was in the middle of a human camp was not enough to stop his mouth from opening. Maybe it was even because she was Dalish that he said what he said.

                “You know, one good thing about the blight is how it brings people together.”

                The woman, or the girl—it was hard to tell her age—barely cleared his shoulders and had to lift her head slightly to return the stare. Alistair was doubly glad he didn’t stop too close to her. “You are another strange human.”

                Like she was one to talk. She was barefoot, after all. Her blouse untied down her back and would have fallen if not for a leather collar and corset. Sweat plastered strands of her hair to her temples, despite the tight braid, as if she stood under a desert sun instead of southern Ferelden. Dark circles formed under her eyes, a violet darker than her irises.

                Instead of pointing out all that, Alistair just said, “You’re not the first woman to say that,” which was both harmless and true enough. As he studied her features more, the suspicion grew. “Wait, we haven’t met have we? I suppose you’re not a mage.”

                An eyebrow raised. Alistair thought the sharp arch would break itself. “I wish I were. You must be Alistair. I go by Mahariel.”

                Alistair almost gasped. “And that makes you Duncan’s new recruit. Mahariel. Yes, that was the name.” In truth, there was no name. Just another important thing Duncan didn’t mention. To be fair, the scrap of paper he wrote on was barely longer than his middle finger. “Glad to meet you. As the junior member of the order, I’ll be accompanying you when you prepare for the joining.”

                “Would you also accompany me to a cook?”

                Alistair laughed, a remark at the tip of his tongue. But he saw her dry lips then the trembling in her fingers. “Oh, um, of course. Whatever you need to prepare.”

                He led her to one of the cooking fires, the one not near the infirmary. He sat with her as she dunked bread into her soup, keeping his silence and recalling his knowledge on the Dalish. When he threw out rumors about newborn stealing or blood magic or naked dancing in the moonlight, there was little left that he could safely talk to her about. And so he let her eat in peace, trading stories with the other soldiers instead.

                Eventually, she handed the cook her empty bowl and turned to Alistair. “Where do the darkspawn come from?”

                Standing up, Alistair invited her to follow him. He turned them toward Duncan’s camp, where a tent waited for its new occupant. “Do you want the Chantry version or the truth?”

                A sharp intake of breath made him glance down at her, dreading that he had offended another person in one day. He blinked as he found a closed-lipped smile on Mahariel’s face. But of course, she would. After all the history with her people, she’d shed no tears for the Chantry. Then how would she react if she knew he trained as a Templar?

                For the most part, her barrage of questions was mostly about the darkspawn, the blight, and the wardens. She wanted all the versions that Alistair offered, even from Chantry records. He peppered his answers with quips about the institution, all of which she smirked or laughed at. As they reached the small red tent, Alistair turned to her and gestured for her to settle in.

                Mahariel paused at the tent opening, eyes on the noon sun. “Duncan said the ritual isn’t until this evening.”

                Really? And here he thought the preparations were already made, considering three had already taken the Joining yesterday. “I suppose they need more—anyway, that means you have time to rest.”

                Those large eyes stared up at him, sunlight picking the violet in them. “I have more questions, if you don’t mind.” She inclined her head toward her tent.

                For a Dalish she was rather friendly with a human. Not that Alistair minded. She was better company than the mothers and the mages.

                A bedroll laid against the far corner of the low tent. A chair sat by the opening, and next to it a small table with a washbasin. Alistair sank onto the chair while Mahariel sat crossed-legged on the bed roll, her pack leaning on her knee.

                “Duncan mentioned other recruits?” she asked, rolling her shoulders.

                “Yes, Daveth and Jory.” Alistair frowned. “We’ll have to find them before evening comes.”

                Mahariel sighed, then rolled a sleeve to her elbows. “I’d rather do the ritual sooner.”

                Blue-green veins ran down her forearm, some tendrils darker than the others. Before Alistair could restrain himself, he was already kneeling next to Mahariel, a hand ready to trace the flow of her blood. He managed to stop that, at least.

                “I haven’t seen the taint in someone,” he explained. “The sickness is said to make ghouls of those infected. Their veins turning black is the first sign. I’m curious, how long have you had the taint?”

                Eyes still on her arm, she murmured, “Six days.”

                “Maker’s breath, you really are resilient.”

                Her eyes snapped back to his.

                “Oh, I meant,” Alistair said, “Duncan mentioned that you were able to recover. I’m sure he told you how rare that is.”

                Mahariel smoothed down her sleeves. “I’ve been told.”

                As Alistair returned to his seat, he noticed two glints on Mahariel’s fingers. A ring on her left hand, a silver marking on the right. He averted his gaze before she could notice. “Have you fought darkspawn, then?”

                A nod. “They’re hideous. Horrible.”

                Somehow the foul words made Alistair feel better. “I’ve fought them up close once. But that was before the battles here, which Duncan kept me out of.”

                “I see,” Mahariel said, her tone knowing. “You’re the young warden he dotes on.”

                Heat rushed to Alistair’s face. “What? No, no. You misunderstand. Duncan is just…he cares for those he leads.”

                The tip of her lips curled in a smile, but she dropped the subject. A part of Alistair wished that she didn’t. Did Duncan talk about him? What had he said? Despite wanting to know, the Maker would return first before Alistair would ask his questions.

                He cleared his throat. “What do you think of Duncan?”

                A pause. She cocked her head, eyes landing on him. “He seems honorable. Sympathetic, but firm. I’d surely die if he hadn’t showed up at camp.”

                Alistair decided then: Mahariel was okay. They spent hours swapping questions about each other. When was he recruited? Six months ago. How did she meet Duncan? Mahariel gave a four-word reply to that: he appered at camp. Where did he grow up? Alistair stuttered at that one. How does one go about explaining that he was a bastard son of the previous king, raised in said king’s brother-in-law’s palace, sent away by said brother-in-law’s wife to the chantry, where he was forced to study and train as a templar? He doesn’t. Especially not when he only just met the person he was talking to.

                “The Chantry raised me and becoming a templar was a decision made for me a long time ago,” he simplified.

                He waited for the narrowed eyes, for the accusation of being a mage-hunter. It never came. Instead, Mahariel simply nodded and said, “I’m sorry they didn’t give you a choice.”

                Alistair blinked at her. Well that was a switch. Tentatively, he gave her a smile. “In any case, that’s in the past. Now, here I stand a proud Grey Warden. And you’ll soon be one too if—well, you’ll understand.”

                Mahariel was silent, eyes staring at something only she could see; Alistair had a feeling her mind had already solved a piece of the puzzle.

 

As Alistair and Mahariel searched for Daveth and Jory, their easy conversation seemed to ebb. And when the other recruits had joined them, Mahariel had stopped talking all together. Was it the new company that raised her wall? She didn’t outright ignore the other two, though she didn’t attempt to introduce herself either. She only spoke when she had to: she told them to stay close to her as she held a sour-smelling incense to repel the wolves, she asked them to wait while she fetched white flowers from mossy logs for a sick mabari, she yelled for Ser Jory to duck before leaping off his back to decapitate a hurlock.

                Then the Chasind witch showed herself, and suddenly Mahariel was in control of the conversation. Alistair thought her to be too trusting, but she gave him a steady look that told him she knew what she was doing. Perhaps she did. Perhaps she was just _that_ good at improvising. Either way, they got the treaties back from the dreaded Witch of the Wilds. Or at least Jory and Daveth dreaded her. Alistair himself didn't trust Flemeth, but Mahariel seemed to tickle something in the witch. 

                When they were close to the gate to Ostagar, and the witch Morrigan had gone, Alistair pulled Mahariel aside.

                “What is it you called the Witch of the Wilds? Ash-something.”

                Her right ear twitched. “ _Asha’bellanar_. Woman of many years. We’re lucky to have found her cooperative.”

                “Do the Dalish believe in the stories about Flemeth, then?”

                “How she came to be matters less than what we know she’s capable of. My clan had crossed her path, once, before I was born.”

                They were silent until they crossed the gate again, back within the safety of walls. Safety from wolves and witches and whatever lived in the Wilds, at least. Not from Mahariel’s sudden question.

                “I suppose it’s time to drink darkspawn blood?”

                Alistair paused, barely for a second, before continuing toward Duncan’s waiting figure by the fire. But apparently the hesitation was enough for Mahariel.

                “This isn’t the worst part, is it?”

                Alistair hummed—almost whined, really. “Look, I’m not supposed to say anything. Besides, you’ll find out for yourself soon enough. I promise you’ll understand everything.”

                Later, Alistair and the three recruits gathered at the ruined altar east of the meeting hall. Daveth and Jory argued the merits of joining the wardens: the former seeing the end of the darkspawn threat as worth his life, while the latter began to doubt his decision to leave his pregnant wife for noble glory. Mahariel, on the other hand, sat on the railing, silent and watching. She was stretching her fingers as Alistair approached. The sharp smell of incense wafted from her skin.

                “You’re not nervous?” he asked.

                She chuckled, short and dry. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll die if I don’t do the ritual.”

                Alistair kept his face blank. He kept his eyes on Mahariel’s even if they seemed to bore into his soul, searching for all his secrets. He groaned. “Fine. The joining is very…well, unpleasant. It’s not something you easily forget.”

                Her answer, when it came, was so soft that Alistair had to lean down to listen.

                “The Joining is fatal.” She took a breath, nodded, then raised her chin. “Do you know why a secret is a secret?”

                “Because it can destroy the world, or haunt you to death, or make you explode in embarrassment? Or all three.”

                That got a laugh from her. Still grim, but at least it came with genuine amusement.

 

The amusement died quickly when Ser Jory drew his weapon. Duncan swung his sword, slipping through Jory’s block, before Mahariel could reach them. The two steps she took just wasn’t enough. The knight fell to the ground, gasping, eyes strained on Daveth’s body by the altar.

                “How dare you.” Mahariel’s voice was low, clear. It trembled with restrained anger. “You could have sworn him to secrecy.”

                Duncan sheathed his blade, calmly turning to the last recruit. “Like I told you once in that cave: we do what we must. It brings me no pleasure to end his life. The Blight demands sacrifices from us all. But the Joining is not yet over.”

                Duncan held the cup to Mahariel, who glared at it. Her eyes landed on Ser Jory, then on Daveth. “As a knight, he would have kept the secret,” she said.

                With a scoff, she brought the cup to her lips. She gagged, slapped a hand over her mouth. Alistair coughed, the memory of rust and burn of the potion returning to his tongue. The cup cluttered to the stone floor, then Mahariel fell to her knees. Like Daveth had. Alistair shot Duncan a look, which the latter replied with a jerk of his chin.

                Mahariel heaved on the ground, weight supported by her forearms. Her shoulders shook, hands balled into fists. Alistair heard the intake of breath, sudden and deep, then a scream cracked his skull. Wrath. Grief. Pain. All three drummed at his chest, paralyzed him. Then Drummond was in front of him again, choking and crying blood. Nails peeled from fingertips as they clawed bricks. Gasps came from four other recruits even as the Warden Riordan offered a prayer for the warrior.

                Then silence. Alistair shook his head, gulped chilly air. Mahariel collapsed on her side, blue light escaping underneath her eyelashes. Duncan and Alistair ran to her, helped her on her back. A hand under her nose confirmed that her Joining was a success.

                “Maker’s breath,” Alistair sighed. “And I thought my Joining was a disaster.”

                Duncan, still on his knees as he pressed two fingers to Mahariel’s wrist, cast his eyes on the fallen recruits. Then he took Mahariel into his arms, lifted her from the blood-soaked stone. “Their sacrifice is not in vain.”

               

Fires fluttered to life as Alistair wiped the sweat from the brow of their newest Grey Warden. Aside from the shifting of her eyes under her eyelids, Mahariel had not stirred. Though she did groan and mumble. An elvhen word: _tamlen._

                “They’re nightmares,” Alistair would say during one of her fits. “You’re right here in Ostagar."

                Perhaps she heard him, since she calmed. Perhaps she wasn’t that terrified of the archdemon screaming at her, of the endless army of darkspawn writhing underground. A twitch of her hand warned Alistair to move away. Just in time as Mahariel lurched up, gasping. Apparently, all new wardens woke up the same way.

                “Dragon,” she rasped. She turned to him, blue light shimmered at the edge of her irises, then vanished as she blinked.

                “The archdemon,” Alistair said. He wanted to put a comforting hand on her shoulder, but he wasn’t sure if it would be welcomed. “The wardens have nightmares. Visions of the archdemon and the horde.”

                A shadow blocked the light from outside, then a grave voice continued, “Such dreams come when you begin to sense the darkspawn, as we all do. That and many other things can be explained in the coming months.”

                Mahariel opened her mouth, clearly to argue, but Duncan cut her off with a raised hand. “For now, you and I need to meet with the king. He has requested your presence, though I’m not sure why.”

                A glint sparked in Mahariel’s eyes—reflection from the candlelight or something else, Alistair didn’t know. She turned those eyes on him, and asked, “Are you coming too?”

                Alistair chuckled. “Me? Oh, no. No one ever requests my presence. Not that I’d want to listen to Cailan and Loghain argue about strategy.”

                “Alistair,” Duncan warned.

                “Alright, alright. But before I forget.” He took the leather pouch by the candle and handed it to Mahariel, who narrowed her eyes at it. Instead of assuring her it won’t bite, Alistair dumped its content on his palm: a tear-shaped glass pendant filled with red liquid hanging by silver chain.

                Mahariel lifted the amulet from his palm and, with two fingers, held the pendant against the light. “Is that blood?”

                At least she didn’t freak out about that. Alistair had been wary of wearing his after his joining. Until they told him its meaning, that is. “We take some of the darkspawn blood from the ritual, to remind us of those who didn’t make it this far.”

                Mahariel unhooked the lock and secured the amulet around her neck. “Daveth and Jory.”

                And Drummond, and many others. The tension released Alistair’s shoulders, knowing for certain that at least one recruit survived this time.

                “And now your Joining is complete,” Alistair said, holding a hand out for Mahariel.

                Her eyes flicked between his hand and his face. Smiling, Alistair took her right hand and placed it against his. His fingertips touched when he wrapped them around her knuckles. He grinned as Mahariel mimicked his grip.

                “Welcome to the Grey Wardens, Mahariel.”

               

**Author's Note:**

> This is the beginning (the first of sort-of prologues) of an Origins novelization with my canon warden, Vie Mahariel. Let me know what you think. And if you see a typo, grammar mistakes, etc, please point them out!


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